Paper Soldiers: The Cost of Honor
by James The Bored
Summary: Harper McAlister is a brand new Guardsmen. A volunteer from a forge world, he's known nothing else in his life except for hard work and death by machinery. Bored out of his skull and motivated to serve the Emperor, he enlists in the Guard. As soon as he finishes his training, Harper is shipped off to a foreign war zone for unknown reasons. But is he ready to pay the cost of honor?


Harper didn't like the way his uniform felt. It was just a little too big for him and he had already needed to cut away some of the fabric from the bottoms of the legs on his pants. His battle plate fit snug though and his helmet was the perfect size. He hoped his lasgun wasn't a prehistoric rusted heap of scrap. He had seen some of the older troopers with newer versions of the lasgun with scopes and energy bayonets and grenade launchers. He had been standing in a line a mile long for hours now. He now was finally nearing the end. Fifty quartermasters formed an assembly line along a row of benches where a trooper would start at the beginning and receive all of his gear from the quartermasters as he moved down the line. Harper came to the first quartermaster, a big fat man with horrific facial hair and a mechanical eye. He thrust a belt and backpack, both full of gear, into his hands. As he moved on down, he received spare socks, grenades, food rations, binoculars, radios, explosives and an entrenching tool. By the time he'd made it to the end of the line, his gear weighed almost as much as he did. Harper was surprised that the Imperium was actually able to supply as much gear as it did. He had heard horrible stories of entire legions of men succumbing to hordes of Tyranids or Orks due to a lack of supply. Maybe there had been a change in Operations. Whether that was true or not didn't matter. Even through all the weight and quantity of his new gear, Harper grinned with glee. He followed the rest of the newly minted Guardsmen down a dirt path and onto a freighter. He was excited and terrified. He had been told that as soon as he finished boot camp, he'd be ferried off to the front. He didn't know why he was surprised. Harper had grown up on a forge world. He'd been born into a common family and then shipped off to a manufactory as soon as he could walk. He received a basic education consisting of basic reading, writing and arithmetic. It wasn't overly advanced mostly because he wasn't supposed to use his education for anything higher than the assembly line. He had grown up playing under the oil refineries with some boys his age. They played hunt the Eldar and tried to dodge the choppers in the garbage disposal. When he was twelve, officials came to his tenement building and gave him and everyone else in his block a maintenance uniform and used tools. They were to take their place on the line the next day. They spent most of their days placing parts onto stampers and drilling and riveting plates of metal onto Baneblades. Almost all of Harpers friends died on the line in one way or another. A kid named Chew was helping him drill holes for a piece of plate metal to go on the turret of a Baneblade one day. The crane that was swinging on the plates ran out of time on the automated system and figured they had finished. Harper jumped out of the way in time but Chew was slammed into a coat of paint on the face of the turret. Another crew came by and riveted the plate into place as Harper watched in horror. The tank rolled off the line with a Chew decal that day. From then on, Harper was slow to make friends. He spent his last three years on the line mindlessly drilling and bolting and welding. Tired of the endless cycle, he signed up for the guard and after six months of training, here he was. Harper walked up the ramp of a huge troop transport and followed the line of Guardsmen as they snaked their way around the inside of the hull. He funneled into a huge open room six stories high and a three or four blocks long. From the roof to the floor were bunks with wire baskets affixed to their sides for gear storage. Thousands of guardsmen sat on their bunks, legs dangling down and throwing things among each other. Some guardsmen voluntarily started climbing to the top of the rows of bunks but Harper just stood there looking up at the daunting elevation before him. He could barely stand with all his gear, let alone climb six stories. He looked around frantically for a bunk on the first, second, or even third levels. He spotted one man grab his bag and leave his bunk on the first level three rows over. Before anyone else could snipe his spot, he took off towards it and threw his bag into the basket. He placed his lasgun on the canvas mattress and hauled his slender frame upwards. He didn't know why the man had left his bunk but he didn't give it much thought. He laid in the bunk staring up at the next one, wondering why there were red and black stains in the material. He started looking for images and faces in the stain for a while as the new Guardsmen continued to file into the room. He inspected his lasgun and field stripped it twice just like he had last week. It seemed to be in normal condition. It was used, undoubtedly, but at least it hadn't seen much service. He noticed that one of the men near him had been given a gun with a rusty barrel and a disintegrating mechanism. He guessed it would fire twice before exploding. Another fifty guardsmen filed into the room and began their long climb to the top as all the bottom bunks were filled in. The door to the barracks slammed shut and pressurized, in-case of hull breach, as the last of the guardsmen entered the troop bay and a loudspeaker crackled. The massive room fell eerily silent. A man with a commanding voice that boomed around the room said through the loudspeaker, "Welcome Guardsmen of the Imperium. We will be stepping off here shorty. Get comfortable. You won't be for long." The mattress under Harper suddenly lurched upwards as the troopship fired its thrusters. The gigantic ship slowly moved towards the skies, defeating the pull of gravity. After a few minutes of powerful climbing, the ship broke the atmosphere and headed out into orbit with the rest of the armada. The ship rumbled and steam vests periodically let out some pressure from pipes along the ceiling. They were off. Harper had no idea where they were going but he had heard whispers among the men about a planet called Grath-4. It sounded like a nice place to live honestly. There were endless jungles and freshwater oceans coating the planet. He had seen videos and propaganda clips of how lush and rich the world was. He never thought he'd ever get the chance to see it. Something troubled him though. He wasn't convinced they were actually going to Grath-4, and even if they were, he had no idea who they would be fighting when they got there. The warp was unsettling as it always was. His stomach leapt about in his body as the ship was stretched through a tiny hole in space to be extruded out the other side in another portion of space. There were no portholes or windows of any sort. He wished he could see where they had arrived but he knew he'd find out soon enough. He decided to lay back in his cot and try to close his eyes, struggling over the buzzing of the men around him. The air was thick and humid and Harper had only just now started to notice a creeping feeling of closter phobia. The tall racks of bunks surrounding him with soldiers flopping about began to crane inwards, towering over Harper. He started to breath heavily and clamped his eyes shut. His throat felt as if it was closing up and he was afraid he would start to scream. If a Commissar saw him now, he'd be shot under the impression of warp taint. He tried to force himself to calm down but he realized he would lose it in a minute. The buzz of soldiers around him became deafening and he clamped his hands over his ears. Harper rolled on his side and tucked into a ball in an effort to hide his episode from those around him. After a few minutes of gripping paranoia, it all passed. He was huffing and puffing and his face and ears hurt from the pressure he'd been applying to them in order to shut out the world. A hand gripped his shoulder and rolled him back over to the right. Harper expected the beam any second now. He expected his last sight of the world to be a grizzled Commissar standing over him, beam-pistol to his temple. Instead, there was another soldier, just like him, looking down at him with concern on his face. "You ok soldier?" The Guardsman standing over him had a huge scar across his right cheek, running from his temple down to his collarbone. He had a high and tight cut and a faded tattoo of an ' _8_ _'h_ 'on his neck. The man asked the question again as he caught Harper eyeing him. Harper nodded frantically as he gulped in embarrassment. He realized he had been sweating profusely and was still breathing hard. He wiped the sweat from his face with his free hand and said, "Yes, yes, I'm fine… I just haven't ever been in a troop ship before. It's… big." The soldier continued to stare at Harper with soft and resigned eyes as he processed his response. "Recite the Emperors Lament." Harper recited it and forced himself to calm down. The soldier nodded and holstered a large pistol that Harper hadn't noticed at all. "What's your name soldier?" the Guardsman said as he sat down on Harpers bunk. "I'm, uhh… I'm Harper McAlister, 144th Foot Guard." The guardsmen nodded his head and replied, "You're fresh meat, huh Private? Well. Let me tell you something. It's not going to get pretty down on the surface and you'll probably get killed if you don't watch yourself. Remember your training. It may have not seemed like much but it'll help you, I promise." The Guardsman paused a moment and asked, "You don't even know where we're going, do you?" Harper shook his head. "We're landing on Yonder-6. I hope you packed short sleeves." Harper nodded. "Good. Its gunna get bloody hot down there." The Guardsmen stood to leave and Harper called out, "Wait!" The man stopped and spun around. "I beg your pardon?" The man said, face cross. Harper realized he had disregarded the chain of command and replied, "By the Emperor, forgive me Sergeant," which he whispered sheepishly as he noticed the man's stripes, "I simply wished to know your name. Again, forgive me." The sergeant's eyes became soft again and he looked down at the floor. "I'm Frank Fetter. 8th Cadian. Good luck down there Private." With that he spun again and rushed off down the line back towards one of his bunks. As Harper watched him leave, he felt the troop ship shudder as it connected with solid ground. Guardsmen all around Harper began to collect their gear and climb down from their bunks as the loudspeaker above them crackled on once again. The same man with the same commanding voice announced, "Guardsmen, we've arrived in country. Collect your gear and assemble at the drop ramp. We will be moving out immediately. May the Emperor be with you, guardsmen. Move it." The loudspeaker crackled off and Harper left his bunk. He had sweated a lot during his episode and was embarrassed again when he noticed soldiers all around him looking questioningly at his sweat stains. He decided to remove his flack armor and his shirt. He fished around in his bag as hundreds of men shuffled past him towards the door. After a minute of pushing a hundred pounds of gear around inside the bag, he finally found his short sleeved uniform. He stuck his arms through the armholes and began buttoning the shirt together as he noticed a Commissar rush into the room, pushing Guardsmen out of the way. His heart dropped as he realized he was the only man in the room, near the door, who wasn't moving. He threw his flack armor on, stuffed the sweaty shirt into his bag and shouldered it as he fumbled to get his helmet on and struggled to sling his lasgun. He had just buckled his strap when the Commissar passed his bunk, eyeing him. Harper slinked into the line of rushing guardsmen, bottom two buttons undone. The Commissar seemed to not notice and continued on his way. As Harper reached the door, he heard a bolter ring out in the large room. His head spun around and he strained to see where the shot had come from. The men behind him shoved him through the door as he slowed but just before he left the room, he saw two men hauling away a third Guardsmen, most of his head missing. The Commissar followed them. The drop bay was crowded and unorganized. Harper tried to find his unit in the mass and finally gave up when he realized that nobody else was grouped up by unit. Just lines of fifty by three. A raised platform to the right of the door held a row of consoles and three crewmen who reviewed the lines of data and readied the door for the drop. A green light began blinking over the door and two of the crewmen moved towards a huge lever on the platform. They threw it together and the third man held down a combination of buttons. The door cracked open and hissed as their hydraulics moved. Bright sunlight speared through the top of the door and was cast across the wall opposite the opening. It moved slowly downwards in tandem with the door and eventually came level with Harper. He held his hand out in front of his eyes and fished around in his vest for his sunglasses. The remainder of the men were still stuck in the hallway when the door finally finished its decent. Two sergeants at the door rushed everyone forwards and the mass of Guardsmen left the ship, shuddering down the giant green ramp. Two suns hovered overhead and Harper could see a moon trapped in between them. The moon glowed a burnt orange. Out in front of Harper were six large dunes, obstructing their view of the land out beyond the ships. He noticed a large assembly of ordinance and supplies under tarps, nets and hidden in shallow trenches. Two other troop ships had landed to his right and he saw another five thousand troops come off of each to assemble at the doors just as his had. He felt out of place, being the only man in short sleeves, but he didn't regret it as he saw the crowd of soldiers around him start to form wet patches under their armor as the heat from the double suns beat down on them. There was a cacophony of booms to the right of the troop ship and Harper's head spun to see what it was. Six Basilisk cannons, painted the same shade as the desert around them, fired huge shells into the atmosphere. The streaks of orange and red were clearly visible against the purple-blue of the sky above. Two teams of men to each gun loaded another volley of massive shells into the chambers and another team closed the huge door so that the gunners could fire again. As the last of the men from Harper's ship finished assembling at the base of the ramp, the Commissar from earlier appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, at the head of their formation. He held his hands behind his back and looked down his nose at the men, which wasn't hard because he must have been seven feet tall. He was a huge man, muscles as big as loaves of bread and shoulders as wide as a coffee table. His head was giant and bound with muscles as well. He wore a shorter version of the standard crimson uniform. A skull bot hovered nearby. The Commissar produced a copy of the Emperor's prayer and began reciting it to the group. The soldiers listened intently, some drifting off as the hot sun began to seep into their bones. The Commissar was about to finish the prayer when there was a banshee scream overhead. The white streak of an artillery shell the size of a bus came down upon the troop ship farthest from Harper. The hull exploded upwards, spraying burning metal shards over the rows of soldiers formed up just outside the door. A wash of flames and shrapnel cut their way into the crowd, swallowing the Guardsmen. Another six artillery shells landed around the troopship, gouging holes into its hull. The second troopship suffered some shrapnel damage as the first one burst into flames and exploded. Any Guardsmen who had survived the initial strike were crushed or burned by the detonating ship. The second dropship began taking off as more artillery shells screamed in. Harper's group was rushed forwards by the commissar and ordered to take cover. Five thousand men rushed together, trampling those who fell. Harper ran, searching between the shoulders of men around him for someplace to hide. He found a trench line with wooden sidings and leap in, hoping it was adequate enough cover. The second regiment from the second troopship had done the same, just as two of the six artillery shells impacted with their troopship. One of the hits was non-vital and exploded against hardened hull but the second shell detonated against an external VTOL thruster, causing the thruster to separate and explode as it tore itself apart. The ship drifted and twisted around as its pilot tried to save it from crashing. After a few seconds of terrible twisting and turning, the ship got itself under control and started drifting out of the atmosphere. Harper's troopship had already taken off and flew into space while the damaged one limped away after it. Six artillery shells meant for Harper's ship crashed harmlessly against the desert sands. Well, it wasn't entirely harmless. A shard of shrapnel from one shell was sent out towards a group of men who hid behind some boxes. The piece of shrapnel sliced through the boxes and separated three of the men at the waist. A moment of grim silence fell over the two regiments as they viewed the carnage. A silence only broken by the popping and crackle of the fire from the first troopship and its mangled cargo. Medics and healers rushed from their cover and out from the trenches to try and rescue survivors from the burning field. Amazingly, some men did in fact live through the ordeal. They stumbled from the flames, some burned badly, some missing limbs, and some amazingly unscathed. Some of the men around Harper left the trench to help their comrades and made their way over to the inferno. Harper stayed in the trench with many of the rest of the Guardsmen, awaiting orders. Another few minutes passed as soldiers returned to the trenches with wounded men around their shoulders. Six medics shuffled a few stretchers into the trench line around Harper. He decided to move a few feet down the line to give them some extra room. The Basilisks had fallen silent during the barrage, Harper noticed. He discovered that one of the cannons had been destroyed and another had been badly damaged. The other four had been de-crewed during the barrage but some of the men had started to hesitantly return to their guns. The men around Harper started to tap each other on the shoulder and yank their thumbs down the line. Harper followed his comrades down the trench line wondering where they were going. The trenches were quite large. He hadn't realized it during his rush for cover but the trenches ended up being large and lengthy. He trudged through the burning sands in the man-made valleys, following his men blindly. Another scream of artillery shells broke the silence. They were being fired from the Basilisk cannons. They screamed overhead, towards whatever enemy had fired on them. After another ten minutes of marching, more artillery shells came over the lines, this time from the enemy. A vicious battle of counter-battery ensued. The shells exploded everywhere except the Basilisk cannons. They blew away sections of trench and gouged holes in supply dumps, sending towers of flame into the burning desert sky. A shell landed in the trench line a hundred yards in front of Harper, spraying the inside of the trench with molten shrapnel. When the dust had settled, Harper moved over the bodies of six or seven men. He couldn't tell. There were too many pieces. His group rounded the corner of a trench which opened up into an open staging area. A row of guardsmen leaned against a massive sand dude that ringed the top of the staging area. They had their lasguns propped up against the top of the dune and fired them into the valley below at the unseen enemy. Hundreds of guardsmen sat grouped together in a circle in the middle of the dugout. A Commissar that Harper had yet to see before stood in their center. The Guardsmen listened intently as the Commissar gave the mission statement and his expectations. Harper and his group joined the circle, his legs shaking with adrenaline and his hands sweating more than his armpits. An unwelcome cool breeze blew into the pit, chilling Harper to the bone under the desert sun. He knew what was coming. As the Commissar spoke about charging and killing the enemy, he knew what that entailed and dreaded it. He also knew that if he refused or hesitated at all, he would be executed as an example for the rest of the regiment. The Commissar finished his mission statement and Harper realized he still didn't know what they were doing. He'd been too afraid to listen. The Commissar finished his speech and paused for a moment to let his expectations sink in. Then he drew his chain sword and slashed it at the top of the dune. The regiment burst to its feet and charged up the dune, lasguns raised. Harper, like a bee in a hive, buzzed his way up the dune, mimicking the movements of his comrades. As they drew bayonets and affixed them, so did Harper. As they crowned the top of the dune and started yelling a terrifying battle cry, so did Harper. As soldiers started to get cut down around them and others started taking cover, so did Harper. He hid behind a burst Ork tank. He recognized the paint scheme along the sides of the destroyed armor as Ork. No Imperial Guard regiment would be caught dead with bright red, green and orange highlights along its edges. Harper had never seen an Ork before, but he had heard a lot about them. They were described as Cro-Magnon, stupid cowards that attacked in probing packs. The Orks shooting at them now didn't seem like cowards though. They were aggressive, impulsive creatures that brought to bear as much firepower as they could on even the smallest threat. As a Guardsmen tried to run from a large rock to another destroyed Chimera, an Ork fired his giant chain bolter at him, spraying all around in order to hit him. The Guardsmen almost made it to his target, dodging the huge bolter rounds, until another six Orks with chain bolters joined in. The Guardsmen's body shuttered and flew apart as the massive bolter rounds tore threw him. As far as Harper could tell, they were trapped. The remainder of the regiment had all taken cover behind destroyed vehicles and rocks and fallen desert trees. A rumbling started to come from the staging area behind the regiment. Harper spun his head around just in time to see three Leman Russ tanks jump the top of the dune and come crashing down in the soft sand outside the battle. The tanks came to a rest and the turrets turned to target different groups of enemies. The Orks squealed and tried to run as the Leman Russ' opened fire. Coax bolters and main guns spat explosive rounds all over the field. Green limbs and heads flew into the air as the tanks tore apart the hardened positions of the Orks. Cheers were sent up and the regiment surged forward into the broken Ork lines. Harper was hauled to his feet by a Sergeant and pushed forward into the open. Stunned for a second, Harper stared into the field in front of him as Orks ran left to right like a shooting gallery, dodging tanks rounds and rolling behind slabs of hastily painted battle plate. Harper snapped out of his daze as an Ork on the other side of a low sandbag wall leveled a bolter. Harper, lasgun pointed forwards in his statue grip, fired off two shots from the hip. One beam went wide, scorching a pockmark into some sand, glassing it, and the second shot connected with the Ork in his midriff. The Ork was disemboweled and stumbled around for a moment, feeling the inside of himself, puzzled to where his guts went. A Leman Russ fired its gun right next to Harper, causing him to double over, free hand on his ear. The massive cannon round impacted with a captured Ork Chimera, splitting the top half of the tank off and then sending it flying. The bottom half of the APC caught fire and trundled into a ravine between two glass-pocked dunes. A dozen Guardsmen near Harper leveled their lasguns at their hips and bayonet charged two orks. Harper followed behind them, ready to headshot the beasts if the charge failed, just like he'd learned in basic. Two men were swept aside as one of the giant beasts sent out a left hook. Three more Guardsmen broke his defense however. They drove their blades into its chest and repeatedly recovered and stabbed three or four times each. The Guardsmen on the second Ork gave up the charge after another two comrades were tossed aside by the savage animal. Instead, they shot him a dozen times and moved on. Harper followed troopers between the piles of carnage the Leman Russ' had created around them. An Ork captain with his massive chain sword and heavy bolter burst from cover twenty yards to their right. A mass of guardsmen opened fire, withering the beast away as he blindly slashed and fired at the Guardsmen. One bolter round caught a trooped in the arm and tore him in half, sending his torso spinning like a top off into a dune. The charge continued another hundred yards, troopers stabbing and shooting, Leman Russ' running over wounded Orks and cutting down those who tried to flee. Harper was busy taking cover behind a pile of dead Orks, some still twitching, as a Commissar arrived on the scene. The officer wielded a heavy lasgun with a chainsaw bayonet and an underslung melta beam. His skull bot hovered nearby, beam weapon at the ready. The Commissar let out an automatic burst from his lasgun and opened a heat-valve to cool the chamber. He crouched momentarily and a hail of bolter rounds flew overhead. The Commissar, again one that Harper had yet to see, looked him in the eye and said, "Guardsman, are you afraid to die?" His lasgun had finished cooling and he stood to fire off another volley. The beams connected with three Orks, cleaving their jaws away and severing their heads. He crouched once more, ducking his head as return fire rippled over him. Harper stuttered and flinched as explosions rocked the ground beneath him, "No sir! I- I'm ready to fight and die for the Emperor!" The Commissar seemed preoccupied with observing a squad of Guardsmen overtaking and Ork position. "Good, good. To die in the Emperors service is a grand honor. You receive his grace and will be remembered forever as a true citizen of the Imperium." With that, the Commissar stood again and fired off another burst. More Orks fell to the ground, clutching their gaping holes. The Commissar rushed off towards the enemy, reciting prayers of the Emperor as he cleaved Orks in two and blasted them to bits. Harper, still hiding behind his hardened position, feared that another, more radical Commissar might come along and shoot him for cowering. He'd been lucky to have been discovered by an honorable zealot. He rocked onto his feet and peered around the corner of his cover. A squad of Guardsmen were tackling a huge Ork, some trying to choke it out, others stabbing and recovering with bayonet. Harper leveled his rifle and fired, the red beam of energy zipping from the muzzle of his gun instantaneously. The beam burned through the skull of the Ork and the squad cheered as they stood atop his body and sawed off what was left of his head. Harper checked behind himself for a looming Commissar but was relieved when all he saw was more charging Guardsmen. He leapt to his feet as soon as he made sure the coast was clear. He followed another squad of soldiers, trying to distance himself from the group if an Ork with an explosive weapon decided to take a shot at them. Sure enough, as the squad climbed to the top of a tall dune, an Ork on the other side fired some sort of rocket launcher. The missile exploded as it crested the dune and leveled three troopers. Harper and two more Guardsmen dropped to the ground and began firing their lasguns over the crest of the dune. As if someone had rung the dinner bell, a Leman Russ charged up the dune. Harper expected it to see him but as it came closer, he was forced to rolled to his right, the tracks just missing him. The armor parked at the top, sliding a bit down the other side as the sand gave way, and began spewing deadly fire down on top of the Ork positions. The launcher toting Ork took a blind shot at the tank and was rewarded with a hit. A screaming missile exploded against its armor, blasting spot welded plates from its chassis. The driver's hatch burst open as a flaming figure leapt from the tank onto the burning sands of the desert. Orks cheered their terrible sound into the sky, beating their chests, as the Leman Russ became engulfed in flames. Harper ducked his head as the flames licked the ammo rack within the tank, bursting inside its hull and causing the armor to explode. The turret popped off like a firework and the treads blew outwards in tiny little pieces while the fuel tank spewed gouts of flame onto the desert floor. Harper stayed hunkered down, his fingers and boots partially buried in the sand. He closed his eyes and scrunched up as shrapnel from the exploding armor landed all around him. A hot piece of metal slices along his forearm, splitting his tan skin lengthwise. He covered the wound with his other hand and screamed through gritted teeth. The two Guardsmen with him rolled over to him and positioned themselves to his right and left. While one of the troopers fired down the other side of the dune at the Orks, the other on inspected his wound. The man laughed and patted the bleeding slice. "You'll be alright son, it's barely a scratch. Harper looked at him with wide eyes, unbelieving the words he was hearing. Just a scratch? He could see his bone! Harper, his hands shaking from shock, tucked his lasgun between his legs and reached for a medkit. The tiny pouch on his hip contained a vile of Emperor's tears, a holy bandage and a black pill meant for administering the Emperor's Mercy. He reached for the Emperor's tears and sprayed the yellow liquid into the wound, disinfecting the area. It burned horribly. Harper almost dropped the vile into the sand. If a Commissar saw him do that, he'd be shot for sure. He carefully placed the vile back into its pouch and retrieved the bandage. He carefully opened the cardboard packaging and removed the holy cloth. He unrolled it and removed a thin film from the application area. The bandage began to cool and frost started to wisp from the cotton. He applied it to the wound and asked the Guardsmen observing him to recite the Emperor's prayer. The Guardsman went stark white. He started to mumble something under his breath as he tried to turn away from Harper. Harper shoved him in the shoulder. "I don't know it." The guardsmen growled. Harper's mouth hung open.


End file.
